


following my

by deniigiq



Series: no burden is he to bear [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Multi, Panic Attacks, Polyamory, Trust Issues, its a fucking cry fest in here, they're fine tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 11:27:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13739901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deniigiq/pseuds/deniigiq
Summary: This was the one thing which made Sam feel helpless and definitely out of the loop. When Steve broke down, he only wanted Buck and when he was back with it, he nearly suffocated himself in his guilt for not wanting Sam. It was hard to watch. It was even harder to not feel useless.





	following my

**Author's Note:**

> Steve goes on a mission and someone in the support team gets killed on his watch. He handles this in the usual way (self-flagellation) and even though Sam offers to help, Buck is the one who calms him down. Steve feels shitty about this (cue more self-flagellation), but the three of them start to work through it.

The shitty thing about being a leader is being a leader. Steve knew deep down, he was one of those people who took control. It was a siren’s call. It was like trying to swim upstream at the edge of a waterfall.

It fucking sucked. It was a weird mix of conceit and pride and duty. Even when they made decisions as a team, the specter of that role followed him.

It doesn’t have to be rational to fucking suck.

The sheer force of its terrible-ness vibrated around Steve’s skull as he stomped down the ramp from the quinjet. His face was burning and everything was loud, like static cranked up to eleven. His jaw ached from clenching and he was glad that the team back on the jet hadn’t mentioned that he seemed upset, while at the same time, he was monumentally pissed that they probably did know he was upset. They probably knew that he felt like shit, like he’d been doused in petrol and was gasping past the fumes while someone dangled a match nearby, smirking. But no one had said anything. No one followed him.

He had blood in his hair and at his mouth. He could feel the flush at his neck. He knew his eyes were bloodshot and shining with furious tears.

No one.

He rationalized that he was probably terrifying to look at, at that moment. He probably looked the special kind of deadly people look after a slap to the face. Like a stuttered word would break the thread holding his composure in check. He understood. He understood.

But that just added to the fury, to the pain, to the tightening in his throat, and the pounding in his eyes. He could feel his own heartbeat in his jugular and he gave himself twenty seconds to meltdown.

He stormed into Stark’s building, through the mechanic’s bay for the jet, and into the building proper. The constant jut of the corners of Stark’s white hallways made him feel like the bull in a labyrinth. Bloodlust growing with each twist. He snatched the handle of the first conference room door he came across and threw himself in it, thankful that it had been long abandoned by its occupants.

He scrabbled his hands over his helmet; they were shaking and he couldn’t figure out how to get the damn thing off but it needed to be off and **_now._**

He knew he had problems. Buck listed them off for him one night as he told him he loved him: PTSD, OCD, anxiety, depression, probably body dysmorphia. Having a thing to call what he felt did not make him feel better. It made him feel out of control. There were so many names. So many letters. He just wanted to be in control. He just wanted to hold it together.

He found the farthest corner of the room, where the table was shoved almost into the wall and he practically fought himself into it. He put himself into that space, maybe six inches across, with his back to the wall and half covered by the edge of the table. He probably smeared blood on the table and on the floor but fuck it, it was that or start screaming.

He didn’t want to be a leader. No he did. No he didn’t. He didn’t want it anymore. If it felt like this he didn’t want it.

He pulled his legs up, pulled his feet in, thighs smashing into calves. He wrapped both arms as tightly as he could around his shins until the strain hurt his shoulders and the skin on his legs. His boots felt awkward and heavy and huge and it was stressing him out, so he buried his head as low into his lap as he could in that position. He could feel the sobs strangling him, but they were dry. His eyes were hot but the tears had dried up somehow and he hated himself because all he wanted to fucking do was cry.

But his throat was too tight and his boots were too heavy.

He heard rustling outside the room and knew that someone, probably Natasha, maybe Stark, had come to check on him. He’d probably dented the door or dripped blood on the floor and he was suddenly furious at the idea that they had the audacity to check in now, to witness his mangled face and dry sobs.

He squeezed everything tighter and heard the door open, then shut. He heard Stark’s voice, low and serious. He thought he heard Natasha murmur something back and then Stark’s footsteps went back the way they came and Natasha’s stayed.

She opened the door and took off her shoes. She stepped deliberately in his direction and sat on top of the table. She leaned over it to peer into his six-inch gap and paused for a long moment.

“What do you need, Steve?” She asked. Her throat sounded thick and he knew that she wanted to touch him but wouldn’t unless asked. And he wasn’t going to ask.

He didn’t—couldn’t—answer, and stayed drawn into himself. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—answer. Not when she was the one who he was certain had known he’d been upset on the jet and had stayed silent. She came after him now and part of him screamed to be grateful but the part that wanted control wanted her to feel bad, just like he did.

That was just selfish. There was being a leader and being conceited and then there was being selfish.

He was being selfish and he needed to get up and collect himself and bind his loose ends, but his limbs only tightened into himself and it felt like it was never going to be better and he had seldom ever wanted to be small again, but damn when he had been small it had been so much easier to just curl up and cry.

The serum took a lot of things away.

Natasha had been talking to him, he realized dimly. No she hadn’t. She was on the phone. She was talking to Sam and the thought that she’d called him like Steve was a fucking child who needed to be picked up from school sent him into whole new peals of shuddering, frustrated dry sobs.

She should have called Buck. She would have called Buck if he’d just fucking told her to.

“Steve, Sam wants to talk to you. Can Sam talk to you?” Natasha asked in a tone reserved for scared dogs.

He couldn’t talk. It wasn’t Sam, he just couldn’t talk, so he shook his head wildly. Natasha took a breath in like half of a sigh.

“He said no,” She told Sam over the line. “I think he’s going to hyperventilate, what should I do?” She paused while she listened, but Steve didn’t hear the rest of the conversation.

 Everything went away for a second, or it could have been days or it could have been minutes, and then he heard a weird scrape and he realized that someone was trying to crawl under the table with him. But that person was kind of clumsy and way too big. His body started shaking again and he pressed into the seam between the two walls, pushing his head down until the bridge of his nose brushed the tops of his thighs.

And then he smelled Bucky. The faint smell of cigarettes and his aftershave and the wax he put in his hair. Steve opened his eyes and peeked up just barely over his knees and sure enough, there was Buck trying to fit his giant head and all that hair and all those muscles under the table just to be next to him. And just like that, it was like everything slowed down. He felt like shit, dried out and bruised and cramped and strained, but the tension crawling up and down his spine settled down and the sobs he didn’t remember he’d stopped making stayed silent. Buck didn’t say anything, just squirmed around trying to get comfortable, as if he knew he’d be there a minute.

Steve could tell Natasha was still in the room, but she stayed in the opposite corner by the door and said nothing.

He felt the tiny scrape of skin on the fabric of his pants and flinched, before realizing that Buck was trying to get his attention. He held out his hand and waited, asking for Steve to tell him it was okay to touch. He was embarrassed. He wanted the hand but he felt like he’d thrown a tantrum like a toddler and he didn’t want to face Nat or Stark or anyone else, he just wanted to go home. He didn’t want to lead anymore.

And that was the thing with Bucky and Sam; they didn’t ask him to lead or be anyone in particular. He wanted Buck’s hand so bad and Buck knew and Buck never asked him to lead, only said that he’d follow, and Buck took the leap. He squirmed closer and contorted his limbs so that his back pressed against the same wall as Steve’s. He slowly slipped his arm behind Steve, separating his back from the wall, and gripped the back of Steve’s neck firmly, using the grip to drag his weight to the side. He pressed his forehead to Steve’s temple and waited.

“I want to go home,” Steve choked out, starting to feel his upset flare with the words. Buck got it though, he nodded.

“Okay, let’s go home,” he said.

 

 

Bucky and Steve had a whole lot of issues; Sam knew this but tried not to dwell on it. Steve hadn’t had a panic attack in months; he’d been doing great with not over-cleaning. He’d even let Sam paint his nails a week ago and had been so stupidly pleased with his glossy teal nails that he’d nearly choked Sam in a hug and had then flown down the stairs to show them to Buck.

Steve and Buck looked after each other as easy as breathing and originally, Sam hadn’t known how he was supposed to fit in their duo, but they’d apparently decided that his place was right in the middle and he was pretty glad for it.

This though, this was one thing which made Sam feel helpless and definitely out of the loop. When Steve broke down, he only wanted Buck and when he was back with it, he nearly suffocated himself in his guilt for not wanting Sam. It was hard to watch. It was even harder to not feel useless.

Steve told him he loved him and he did all kinds of things to show it; he let Sam see his weaknesses and his painful shyness. He knew exactly how Sam liked his coffee and he loved Sam’s mama and sister and cousins. He let Sam cry on him and cried with him on Riley’s death day, but he didn’t want Sam when the world got to much for him to handle and well, that hurt.

He leaned against the kitchen island and scrolled through Instragram to distract himself until Buck brought Steve back. It didn’t really work.

At half past 9, the front door opened. Steve shuffled through with Buck behind him. He was all red eyes with blood in his hair and disgusting from the mission and uncomfortable from the suit. Buck said nothing, but gently hip-checked Sam when he made his way into the kitchen. He pulled out a pot, filled it with water and set it on the stove. Then he started rustling around in their cabinets for ground coffee beans so that he dump the grinds into a cup indiscriminately with boiling water like a heathen.

Sam glared at his back and then looked back to Steve and gave a small smile. Steve seemed to freeze for a second (which Sam knew was the guilt setting in) before crossing the short distance between the living room and the kitchen to lock Sam in a rib-cracking hug. He buried his face against the crook of Sam’s neck and Sam could feel his thick swallowing and could hear his shaky breaths as he tried to keep himself from crying.

“I’m—I—” he tried to get out, but Buck beat him to it.

“He’s sorry,” He snapped as he leaned against the counter next to the stove. “He feels like shit that he didn’t talk to you.”

Steve hiccupped behind Sam’s ear and Sam sighed and tried to give Steve the same level of rib-cracking hug he’d just received.

“I get it,” He murmured, “You don’t have to be sorry.” But Steve wasn’t having it, he pulled back from Sam and, scrubbing at his red face.

“No—I want—I need you to know that I’m sorry that you have to deal with—with this—with me. I’m sorry that I can’t—that I don’t—can’t—talk to you when—” Sam was 50% sure Steve was going to send himself right into another panic attack. He shot a questioning look at Buck, but found that he’d busied himself with making the coffee. He opened his mouth to tell Steve that it really was okay, that it hurt a little, but it wasn’t that different from wanting your mom when you’re sick or scared, and he could live with that. But Steve carried on.

“I don’t want you to think I don’t want you,” he choked out, “I don’t know why I can’t—I don’t know why I do that every time. I just don’t want you to be upset. I just—I feel so self—”

“If you finish that fucking sentence I will fucking finish you,” Buck snarled, ignoring the way the teaspoon he was gripping was dripping coffee onto the tile. Steve ducked his head and shook harder, biting back sobs.

Sam deflated.

“Steve, I’m not upset that you had a panic attack. I’m a little upset that you don’t want me to help you through them when you have them because I really want you to trust me enough to let me do that.”

Steve trembled and hiccupped. He nodded towards the tile though, showing Sam he’d heard him.

“I really want to help you, man. It feels pretty shitty to just stand by and watch you suffer,” he continued, “But I know that you’re used to Buck helping you through this kind of thing. I just wish there was something I could do.”

 “I trust you, Sammy,” Steve suddenly coughed out, trying to scrub tears out of his eyes but really just smearing them in with the blood and dirt on his cheeks, “I trust you as much as I trust Buck. I just, when you’re there I don’t—I don’t wanna disappoint you. I—it’s embarrassing and Buck—Bucky’s seen it all, he knows everything about me and I d-don’t want you to be disappointed.”

Sam sighed and wasn’t quite sure what to say but apparently Buck knew how this played out because he just rolled his eyes heavenward as though asking God “do you fucking see this guy?”

“Stevie, it ain’t embarrassing. Nobody’s disappointed,” he told the ceiling, “I’ve had a million of these things and this guy don’t think less of me, do you, Sam?”

“’Course not,” Sam replied.

“I mean, what would it take for you to be disappointed in me?” Buck asked.

“I dunno, we talking disappointed or pissed off?”

“Disappointed. I mean, irredeemably disappointed. Never speak again—never look again—spit in my face kind of disappointed.” Steve made a wounded noise what made Sam’s diaphragm squeeze.

“Well, I mean genocide would probably do it. Mass murder of civilians. Putting my vets in danger— putting my _mama_ in danger. Talking shit about Black Lives Matter. Supporting a certain piece of shit in office—should I go on?” Sam heard Steve cough out a tiny chuff of laughter. Buck smirked at him.

“You’re so full of shit, you told me last night that you’d break up with me if I brought coleslaw into this house.”

“I’d dump you, not shun you.”

“But it’s just cabbage,” Steve creaked out, peeking up at Sam through his eyelashes.

“You tell him, Stevie,” Buck laughed. He pushed a cup of (terrible) coffee into Steve’s hand and offered his own to Sam which he (predictably) refused.

“No, it’s not. It’s devil’s food, which is an insult to the cake. Anyways, you plan on doing any of those things any time soon?” Steve shook his head. “Alright, then I’m probably not about to be disappointed any time soon. Especially by you hurting, Steve. You understand?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, “ Yeah, I get it. I’m—” Buck gave him a mutinous stare, “Stop. I’m sorry, Sam. I really do trust you. Thank you for helping,” he cast his eyes down again, and murmured “I love you a lot.”

Sam hummed and moved toward the kitchen to make a non-lethal cup of coffee.

“Anytime, baby. I love you, too. What do you need right now?” Sam asked.

Steve considered a second, then arched his back to crack it and sighed a bit in relief.

“A shower.”

“Great, go. You’re making us uncomfortable just looking at you.”

“Us,” Buck griped, “So this is an ‘us’ decision now?”

“Shut up, I’m dumping you,” Sam snapped, hiding his grin by measuring out ground coffee into the coffee maker. He heard Steve give a watery chuckle before heading upstairs.

There were a few beats of silence which were then cut off by the gurgling of the coffee maker. Sam felt heat and pressure on his back where Buck pressed against him from behind. Buck wrapped his arms around Sam’s waist. Sam hummed a little and reached back to scratch at his scalp.

“You alright?” He asked.

“You’re amazing,” Buck breathed hot over the nape of his neck. “I hate seeing him like that, I usually just cry all over him while he cries all over me and then we insult each other and get on with it.”

Sam laughed.

“I promise I’ll never buy coleslaw.”

“You better believe you won’t.”

“Do you think he’ll be okay?”

“Probably for now.”

 


End file.
